


ghost spots

by orphan_account



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, also they're older in this fic, don't worry it's not even depicted, it's all kinda bittersweet tbh, just mentioned but just in case, neither elio, not by oliver tho, tw: mentions of self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 16:50:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18167714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sudden circumstances bring Oliver back to Italy. Now he must face what happened twenty years ago, whether he’s ready for it or not; and discover a new side of his beloved Elio.





	ghost spots

It’s a recurring dream for Oliver. The one where he’s in a museum in Rome, surrounded by awe-inspiring monuments and statues. It’s always surprisingly empty for a summer day in such a place, dream logic. And in the middle of the grandiose hall, all alone, Oliver can’t help but feel the magic this place holds; can’t help but feel allured to the most beautiful monument in the center of the room. _The Boy With The Peaches,_ it’s called. Such a beautiful man Oliver feels like he knows all too well, standing boldly in all his naked glory. At his feet, there’re peaches that have fallen down, somehow. He’s holding one bitten peach in his left hand, his arm stretched out, like he’s admiring the fruit.

Oliver walks towards the lonely boy, he can almost feel his silence, his ache, his desire. As if he’s seducing him. Oliver’s steps echo in the floor until he gets to the statue, climbs on the base of it and puts his arm around the boy’s neck, the other hand caressing the stone tresses of curly hair. And then he locks his lips against marble ones.

The kiss last for only a second until he wakes up, but there’s something different this time. 

When Oliver pulls back, the statue crumbles.

* * *

 _Darlin', darlin', darlin'_  
I fall to pieces when I'm with you, I fall to pieces  
My cherries and wine, rosemary and thyme  
And all of my peaches (are ruined)

—Lana Del Rey, _Cherry_

* * *

There’s a group of friends playing in a pond somewhere near the villa. The water is refreshing on a hot summer day, and they can’t stop laughing.

“Hey, look!” One of them says as he climbs on a rock. “I dare you all to dive from here!”

“Don’t you dare do that, Paolo!” The only girl in the group cries. “Didn’t you hear what happened last month?”

“No, what is it?”

“Really?!” Another one of the boys yells. “But the people around here wouldn’t stop talking about it for days!”

“Yeah, that poor guy...”

“Hey, you know I’m not a regular here. So could you please stop being assholes and just tell me the story?”

“Okay, alright...”

They all gather at the shore.

“You know that family that comes here on holidays, right? The Perlmans.”

“I’ve heard of them, yeah.”

“Well, Mr. Perlman died like two years ago. Now it was just the mother and the son, that gay guy Elio. You know, the one that went to America. The musician. He’s pretty known around here.”

“Ohhh, yes! He died, didn’t he? I heard something like that, but I don’t know much about it.”

“Well, he came with his boyfriend here at the beginning of the summer and they went swimming around here, until the boyfriend guy dared him to dive after him. They did, and nothing happened to the boyfriend guy, but that guy Elio never came up.”

“What?! He drowned?!”

“Worse,” another of the friends continues the story. “Boyfriend guy starts getting panicky and calling for Elio, and then the water starts turning red and the body comes to the surface...”

“He died instantly,” the girl picks up. “Smashed his head against a rock.”

“Oh my God,” the guy says. “That’s terrible.”

“Yeah, and he was so young,” the girl sighs. “What a shame.”

* * *

**_The month before_ **

Oliver never imagined coming back to the villa in such circumstances. He drugged himself to sleep through the whole plane trip so as not to think yet. Even as he reached the old house where he had made so many memories he still was somewhat in a daze, and felt like Elio would come out of the door as soon as he came out of the taxi.

But it didn’t happen.

Elio wasn’t there anymore.

Oliver was still feeling numb as they spread Elio’s ashes in the pond where he died. It just felt unreal: he couldn’t believe _that_ was Elio now, and the Elio as he remembered didn’t exist anymore. But even if it didn’t cause him pain right at that moment, he knew that it would hurt during the night, when he was in that place full with memories and he didn’t even have his wife and children to distract him of it. And yet, he couldn’t think about a more fitting way of saying goodbye to Elio. The water would take his remains everywhere around the villa, his ghost spot forever. The whole place would be Elio, and Elio would become the whole place. Oliver couldn’t think of a better transmutation.

He was worried for Mrs. Perlman, though. She had lost her husband just about two years ago, only to lose his son one year after. It was only natural that she was devastated.

Oliver always thought there were no words to describe what he and Elio had had, but now he could see it. What there were truly no words for, was for a mother’s pain.

But she wasn’t completely alone in her pain. There was a man next to her, who couldn’t stop sobbing loudly as he held her. He seemed Italian, in his late twenties.

Oliver’s heart sank.

Could it be that maybe Elio had had a new lover?

* * *

After the ceremony, some of the people went to the villa to accompany Mrs. Perlman in her pain. Oliver, still a good friend of the family, obviously joined them.

When they were there, Oliver could appreciate how many people, how many friends had Elio’s life had touched. They put his records on, in his honor. Oliver felt a knot in his throat —he knew all of them, knew all his compositions by memory.

That evening went by in a weird way. Sometimes it seemed like time stopped and he would find himself mourning or talking about how special Elio was with another people. When he felt overwhelmed, he closed his eyes and when he opened it seemed like three hours had passed already. Some instants he could more or less feel, some others passed like he wasn’t even there. And it was during one of those disassociation flashes that he suddenly found himself talking and comforting Mrs. Perlman; and when she broke down crying —again— and Oliver held her close, he realized he had lost sight of the guy from before. He was nowhere to be around.

Oliver knew it wasn’t the moment to, but he really wanted to ask Mrs. Perlman about him. And he knew it wasn’t right, he knew he was being hypocritical, but he couldn’t help but be jealous at the idea that Elio had replaced him.

_(But how can you replace yourself?)_

His musings were interrupted by ear-piercing screams. A second later, the loyal Mafalda came downstairs in a hysterical state.

“Help! Help! Marco is... Oh boy! He won’t stop bleeding!”

* * *

His name was Marco Bianchi. He was 27 years old, exactly ten years younger than Elio. He was a graphic designer from Florence and had started dating Elio about a year ago.

And now, he had tried to slit his wrists in a manic episode in the upstairs bathroom of the Perlman villa.

Were he honest, Oliver would’ve rolled his eyes. It had nothing to do with jealousy, or so he wanted to make himself believe. It wasn’t like that, it was about the tackiness of the guy for acting such a way in such a day. People should be remembering and honoring Elio, and not gossiping about his sexuality and his crazed excuse of a lover.

And yet, there he was now, waiting in the hospital. It was for Mrs. Perlman, she needed support. He didn’t really care about this guy. But he had no one else, or so Mrs. Perlman told Oliver. His family had disowned him when he came out at age nineteen, and from then on he had had to make a life for himself.

Sadly, Oliver could understand that. That could’ve been his future in a parallel world. But it wasn’t the time to think about that, but instead about how Marco had found an understanding family in the Perlmans for the last year, and this was how he paid them? It was so ungrateful and immature, Oliver thought.

A doctor finally came after a while. He told them that everything was fine, but they would have to keep an eye on Marco just to make sure he didn’t make an attempt on his life again.

Mrs. Perlman requested to see him. Oliver wanted to come in with her, for she wasn’t exactly emotionally stable at the time; but the doctor wouldn’t let him. Marco was still vulnerable and medicated so it was better not to overwhelm him.

Mrs. Perlman assured Oliver she would be okay. She left and came back after a few minutes with a somber face.

“What is it?” Oliver asked.

“It’s Marco,” she said. “He wants to see you.”

* * *

Oliver entered the room with uncertainty. Marco was sitting on his bed.

“There you are,” he whispered bitterly.

“Hi,” Oliver answered curtly, not liking the tense atmosphere in the room. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes,” Marco replied, glaring at Oliver. There was a notebook next to him, which he took and stretched out to Oliver. “I believe you’ll want this. Come on, take it. My arms fucking hurt.”

Oliver took the notebook but didn’t look at it. “What is this?” he asked.

“I think you should read it. But not now, please. I couldn’t stand it.”

Oliver sighed. “Okay.”

There was a heavy silence between them. After a while of Marco’s unforgiving stare on him, Oliver let out another breath and fidgeted uncomfortably.

“Listen, Marco. I think I know why you asked me to come here, but _that_ was over. It has been for a very long time.”

Marco sneered. “Yeah, right.”

“It’s true!” Oliver almost pleaded. “Besides, who cares? You were with him the last moments of his life. You should kno—“

“DON’T.” Marco growled. “Don’t talk about us like you know. You don’t. You don’t even care that he...” Marco’s voice turned weak and high-pitched; “that he’s dead...”

Oliver’s stomach churned. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. Elio would understand —and he remembered, he remembered when they barely knew each other and Oliver fancied him so much that he couldn’t talk to him, couldn’t hold his gaze for much time and Elio misread it all, thought Oliver didn’t like him when it was the exact opposite. This was the same. It wasn’t that he didn’t care —it was just that he didn’t want to think about it. The thought that Elio had disappeared from this Earth forever terrified him, that Elio would cease to exist, that after a few years only a few people would remember him and Elio would live only there, in their fickle memories. Elio would never open his eyes again, would never grow old. Oliver would never see him again _and that was the scariest thing he would have to face._

He wasn’t ready. Not yet. Maybe not ever. And talking about it, bringing it up would mean accepting those facts.

He just couldn’t do it. So, as awkward as the situation was, it was even easier to talk about Marco’s feelings.

“Is that what you did it?” Oliver asked.

Marco’s eyes glinted with fury.

“You don’t know anything. I didn’t attempt to kill myself because Elio died,” he hissed the last word. It stung. “I did it because I gave him my everything, and yet he still loved _you_ the most.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“The notebook,” Marco pointed out. Oliver finally looked at it —it seemed ordinary, just a notebook with brown leather, worn-out covers. “It’s Elio’s diary. I went upstairs, to his room, looking for something I could remember him by, and I found it. So I began to read it: it’s a diary about the stuff that happened twenty years ago. Sounds familiar?”

Oliver paled.

“I-I didn’t know he wrote about _that_.”

 _“That,”_ Marco scorned. “But he did. He wrote about _that,_ Oliver. You know? I met Elio at a concert in Florence. He was ten years older than me but I didn’t care. I liked him immediately, and we had similar opinions and things to talk about. In the beginning it was just about sex. Passionate, raw, meaningless sex;” he emphasized. Oliver wasn’t stupid, he knew he was doing it to make him jealous, and it was a cheap trick but it was working. However, Marco continued talking.

“…But I fell in love with him. I gotta give him credit though, he was always honest. He always warned me that he was in love with someone else,” he paused, staring intently at Oliver. “But I insisted we should give it a shot. We began dating and he would carry that stupid notebook everywhere, but he never let me see what he was writing. Said it was a novel draft he was writing about his life, that he would maybe publish someday. He never told me it was a diary about the time he spent with you,” Marco sighed, then rubbed his watery eyes. “He lied to me the whole time.”

Oliver grimaced.

“I’m sorry.”

Marco wiped his tears away.

“It doesn’t matter anymore, anyway.”

“Don’t be that way. I bet... I bet Elio was trying to protect you.”

Marco scoffed.

“Easy for you to say.”

“Hey, but it’s true. Listen, I know him. I _knew_ him well,” Oliver corrected himself, as much as it hurt; “we thought very alike. I bet... I bet that he was trying to move on, you know? For you. I bet that writing that diary was like a catharsis for him, like a way of putting his feelings there so when he finished it he could finally put them away and let go. And _you_ , you have to give yourself credit, Marco. For in twenty years, he did this until _now_ , only for you.”

Marco gave a wet chuckle.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not Oliver. Or _Elio_ , whatever it is,” Marco rolled his eyes with spite, aware of their little practice. Oliver felt himself blush.

“I’m sorry.”

Marco shrugged, although pissed off.

“It’s okay. You really can’t control this stuff. He was always in love with you,” he choked; “and I never really had him, but... it hurts as much...”

There was a pause while Marco recovered his stifled voice again.

“...We were gonna go to Rome, you know?” He cried, not even trying to control it anymore. “He didn’t want to go, now I know why, but I pressured him until he said yes. We were going to go for a weekend holiday there, and now he’s gone.”

Oliver closed his eyes. His stomach was a knot. He really didn’t want to talk about this.

“We were so close,” Marco added in a soft, vulnerable voice.

“Let’s go,” Oliver snapped. Marco met his eyes.

“What?”

Oliver seemed just as surprised as Marco, like he didn’t understand what he just said. Somehow it had just come out, but as crazy as it sounded, he wasn’t backing down. Maybe, as scary as it was to be thorn into pieces, was what he needed.

“Let’s go. To Rome,” Oliver insisted shakily. “Maybe you’ll be able to move on after that.”

Marco blinked.

“What about you?”

Oliver gave him a sad little smile, and shrugged lightly.

“I can’t.”

* * *

They did it.

Somehow they were there, in the eternal city. Oliver couldn’t believe it, he didn’t even feel like himself. He felt like his spirit had left his body, again. Just as he had felt when he had received that fateful phone call, when Mrs. Perlman told him Elio was...

Marco was in no better shape, however. He seemed like he would burst into tears at any moment.

This had been a bad idea.

They had arrived in the early morning, and the check-in at a hotel they had found last minute was until 2PM. Therefore, they left their small luggage and went looking for something to eat for breakfast.

It dawned. The city was beautiful and Oliver had a knot in his throat as they walked. Luckily enough, they found a bakery not so far away and it served to distract him, if only for a moment.

Marco ate a panini very fast and without talking. He must had been starving. Oliver, on the other side, wasn’t feeling like eating at all, so he just watched the few people around them as Marco devoured his meal.

When Marco finished, they talked about trivial stuff; like the weather or the hotel lobby or the journey in the train. Oliver didn’t mention that he couldn’t sleep for even a minute; for he kept checking Elio’s diary but closed immediately after seeing just his calligraphy, unable to bring himself to read without feeling he would break. He couldn’t break just yet.

Marco asked what they should visit. Oliver suggested getting lost somewhere, under the excuse that they both knew downtown well enough and they should get to know the actual city, its houses, its people. Marco agreed —he had been in Rome many times when he was in high school and college. Little did he know that Oliver was suggesting that because going downtown was too much, and he wouldn’t be able to keep himself together if they went there.

The sun was up in the sky. It was hot and people were happy and loud, but it was a gray day for Oliver. Marco talked and talked, but honestly Oliver couldn’t help spacing out the whole time. It was clear how different they were: Oliver spaced out not to think, and Marco filled the silences with nonsense chat for the same effect.

Eventually and after passing a lot of blocks and parks, midday came. They were hungry, sweaty and tired; and lucky enough to find a trattoria nearby. Since it wasn’t exactly a touristic zone, there weren’t many people, which added to its charm. They ate and drank beer, and somehow, and despite how much they had tried to avoid talking about him the whole day —Elio inevitably found a way into their conversation.

They talked about the little things. They talked about how they met, and how Elio played the piano, and the things he said and the way he moved around and danced and fidgeted. They talked about how _God, he could be such a brat sometimes!_ And Oliver realized his cheeks hurt from smiling at the idea that Elio had matured, but deep down he still had that spark, that childlike energy and wit. Maybe it was the booze or maybe something else, something they couldn’t see, but they couldn’t stop gushing about Elio like high-schoolers with a crush. And after a few more beers Oliver confessed why he didn’t want to go downtown and how Elio had thrown up in that statue and how they had kissed that night. He talked about how everything seemed surreal now, like it had all been a dream. And Marco was crying, but Oliver didn’t care, he could talk about Elio the whole night, had so many stories and things to say, things he had been keeping to himself for twenty years and now he couldn’t —wouldn’t— stop; until the moment broke by the ring of his cellphone.

It was his wife.

Oliver excused himself and Marco said he didn’t mind.

Oliver’s wife just wanted to know how he was. She was very understanding and honestly, despite everything, Oliver knew he was lucky. Maybe he would never love her like he loved Elio, but he had a sort of special affection for her and their lovely children, who were also worried for their papa. After reassuring them that everything was okay, he came back to the table, but Marco wasn’t there anymore.

There was just a note.

* * *

_Oliver:_

_Sorry for leaving like this. I can’t do this._

_My parents also called me just now, as you’re talking to your family. They heard about the hospital incident and they are crazy worried. They want me back in Florence. They’ve even offered me to stay with them, if I can forgive them. I think I’ll give them another chance. Plus, I don’t wanna be alone, and I don’t trust myself in this city with you. It’s just too much._

_I hope you find closure. I promise you I will try to._

_Good luck,_

_Marco_

_P.S. Sorry for making you pay the bill. Actually, I’m not sorry, you were kind of a jerk for telling me all that stuff about you and Elio. But I know now,_

_you guys were always meant for each other._

* * *

The night came.

Oliver’s feet ached for walking around most of the day, but they couldn’t ache more than his heart did.

He had been wandering around Rome and unsurprisingly, and a little bit too drunk, he found himself at the same statue were he had kissed Elio hard that night.

Oliver sat in the floor and thought about tangent lines. It was a math concept but it crossed his mind now. He had always thought it was sad how they touched just once and then part ways forever, never to meet again. He smiled, bittersweet, and thought about how Elio’s touch must be so unique and powerful for him to still be longing for it after twenty years. Thinks about how Elio was — _is_ — one of a kind, always will be.

Rome had changed. Even there, at their ghost spot, it had been twenty years since that statue had witnessed their love for each other blossom. Ever since then it must had seen a thousand more love stories. Maybe the bar where they hung out that night with that people didn’t even exist anymore, maybe it had been replaced by a boutique or a nightclub. Time was heartless and waited for no one, no matter how much of a great time you had that one night, no matter if you’d met and lost the love of your life. No matter if you were given the stars or if you remembered everything.

The city was familiar to him, but at the same time unknown; and even surrounded by thousands of tourists, he couldn’t help but feel like it was empty and soulless without Elio.

And without even fully realizing it, he started crying. Just a tear or two in the beginning, but the sobs came after and he couldn’t control himself any longer, couldn’t stop shaking. The door had been opened and now it couldn’t be closed. The people that passed by looked at him and some of them asked him if he was okay, if they could help. Oliver ignored them all, and crumbled like the statue in his dream.

* * *

He decided Marco was right. It was indeed too much.

He left the next morning and took the first plane he could find to the US. And as he waited, he remembered the diary. He opened it up in the last page Elio had written —he wanted to know what was the last thing Elio had thought about him, even if it hurt. It surprised him to find out that Elio had indeed written a novel —a novel about their love. It made him chuckle sadly —of course. He himself couldn’t have written it other way, after all, their love was too pure, too personal to put into words. It was easier to write it as a novel than a diary —that way, even if the main character was so obviously himself, at least he could say that it was just a character. It could be him, or it could be not. It could be all made up or not, depending on how he was feeling that day.

_(But they knew it wasn’t not, it wasn’t a dream, it was just too real and raw and it would always belong to them only, even if the whole world read it...)_

 

_‘I'm like you,’ he said. ‘I remember everything.’_

_I stopped for a second. If you remember everything, I wanted to say, and if you are really like me, then before you leave tomorrow, or when you’re just ready to shut the door of the taxi and have already said goodbye to everyone else and there’s not a thing left to say in this life, then, just this once, turn to me, even in jest, or as an afterthought, which would have meant everything to me when we were together, and, as you did back then, look me in the face, hold my gaze, and call me by your name._

 

Oliver closed the notebook. A few meters away the flight attendant was giving indications but he felt light years away from this moment, from all this people. He looked at the window: the sky outside was bluer than he had ever seen, wider, and he smiled as they began to fly, fresh tears falling from his eyes.

“Oliver, Oliver, Oliver, Oliver, Oliver...” he whispered.


End file.
